


Salut, Jeanne d'Arc!

by HathorAroha



Series: Frozen Fandom Month Stories [13]
Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Frohana Week, Frozen Fever, Gen, Making Today A Perfect Day, sisterly relationship, snow sisters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 15:05:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4353647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HathorAroha/pseuds/HathorAroha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When one’s greatest inspiration dies at a tender age, one outlives them all at once, their lives having been oh so brief. Some know this long before outliving a hero, but others, like a certain Princess Anna of Arendelle, only notice when they are the age their childhood hero—or heroine—passed from this life. When the realisation comes, it is quick but powerful, a lightning strike of more than momentary acknowledgement. With this spark of recognition, the heart skips one beat—the heart’s own “minute of silence”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salut, Jeanne d'Arc!

When one’s greatest inspiration dies at a tender age, one outlives them all at once, their lives having been oh so brief. Some know this long before outliving a hero, but others, like a certain Princess Anna of Arendelle, only notice when they are the age their childhood hero—or heroine—passed from this life. When the realisation comes, it is quick but powerful, a lightning strike of more than momentary acknowledgement. With this spark of recognition, the heart skips one beat—the heart’s own “minute of silence”. 

It was already a few days since her nineteenth birthday, yet Princess Anna was still getting used to the luxury of a brand new age. Her nineteenth had been the happiest birthday she could remember, even despite Elsa’s fever. But, sickness or no, this was the first birthday in forever that she got to spend with Elsa. The first birthday in thirteen years where she didn’t sit outside her sister’s door, solemnly eating her own slice of cake—chocolate, naturally—and leave one behind on a plate for Elsa. But the best present yesterday was neither jewellery nor cake—it was being able to be there for Elsa, take care of her. 

 

One quiet evening, Anna wandered through castle halls, listening to the sound of her footsteps’ steady beat to the song of sunset. In Elsa’s room, the queen was currently in a deep sleep, and while Anna was sure she wouldn’t be wandering off any time soon, she still had a servant stay near her, to make sure everything was alright. As long as the servant stayed with Elsa, Anna felt assured her sister wouldn’t be going off on more swinging-off-clock-towers shenanigans. 

Anna knew the castle’s layout off by heart, having explored every nook and cranny during her thirteen years of loneliness. Her closest friends never spoke and had flesh and clothes of paint. Her favourite portrait, the one of Joan of Arc, had one day been moved to a smaller study, a spare one of sorts. As Anna grew older, she ceased talking to portraits, especially after Joan’s had been moved out of the main picture gallery into the spare study. Anna had not visited Joan of Arc for a long time, at least two years. 

 _She’s probably getting a little lonely in that study,_ Anna mused, _although pictures can’t possibly get lonely. They are portraits after all._

Still, it couldn’t hurt to pay her old “friend” a little visit while Elsa rested.

On opening the door into the unused study, Anna was met by the sight of a brilliant sunset flaring into the sky. Deep orange smouldered on the western horizon, so bright it might almost have burnt the tops of the fjord cliffs, baking the fjord itself to a golden-brown colour. A wildfire of yellow scorched the strinkingly blue sky in the last smoky breaths of evening. Anna raised a hand to shade her eyes from the sunset as she ambled over to the sofa under the huge portrait of Joan. Fingers of weakening sunlight traced over the portrait, adding touches of colour to the fair mane of the horse that Joan was riding into battle, her banner unfurling behind her. Her armour seemed to glimmer in the stretching rays of light arcing across the frame. Anna couldn’t help but smile at the image of her childhood heroine. Though Anna knew now from reading more about Joan that she never carried a sword into battle, preferring her own white banner above all, she couldn’t help feeling impressed by the young woman’s bravery and fortitude.

“So, hello, Joan, we meet again,” Anna said aloud, “haven’t talked in a while, have we?”   
No answer of course—but Anna didn’t mind. It was a familiar time, and if she were to be honest, it had given her some degree of comfort to talk out her feelings to the paintings on the walls. Maybe the ghosts or spirits of the deceased heard her somehow. 

“Sorry I haven’t visited you in a long time—so much has happened, you know.”  
Anna flopped down on the couch, hands behind her head and legs crossed, staring up at Joan. 

“Elsa and I are okay now—really, I’d say _way_ more than ‘okay’. She’s not too well right now—got a fever, but don’t worry, I got a servant looking after her now, just for a little while. Make sure she doesn’t swing off the clock-tower again, you know.” 

And so Anna went at length to the image of Joan of Arc, regaling the events of her eventful and chaotic—in an entertaining way—nineteenth birthday. Joan’s portrait heard all about each and every one of Anna’s gifts from Elsa, but most especially the chance to be there for Elsa in person, and not from the other side of a locked door. 

“Best birthday I ever had in my life,” Anna declared, “after all, it’s not every year I’ll be nineteen is it? If this means I’ll be spending more birthdays with Elsa—then I can’t wait to turn twenty. Or twenty-one. They say twenty-one is the magical age, don’t you think so? But I think nineteen is the magical age—I might be biased, though…” 

Her voice trailed off as her brain caught up to her mouth, sharply reminding her of one of the most important facts about Joan. Smile fading away, Anna sat up, now drawing her knees to her chest, unable to take her eyes off Joan’s face. That eternally nineteen year old face.

_Oh my God. Joan was nineteen when they burnt her at the stake. Yeah, that was a magical age for her._

Anna had just turned nineteen—an age that ten years ago seemed like forever away. And now, here she was, at the same age Joan was when she was burnt at the stake.

_How did I turn nineteen so fast?_

“Oh my God, Joan, I’m sorry,” Anna found herself half-whispering, “I just only realised now—you were nineteen when they…”

She couldn’t bring herself to voice Joan’s fate as she stared at the fading strips of sunlight flickering over the horse’s mane and Joan’s armour. Anna tried not to imagine the rays of sun across the portrait as the flames that devoured Joan of Arc at the stake. She struggled not to think of the fire reaching to devour Joan’s flesh, melting the young face with its intelligent eyes into ashes. Anna’s vivid mind’s eye replaced the armour with the simple cloth Joan would have worn when led to and tied to the stake. The sunlight shifted as she stared up the portrait, so now the rays of yellow and orange began to sweep over the rest of Joan, like…

_Like the flames that devoured her._

“Wow, I mean it hit me just now,” Anna continued, “I guess to me at nine, nineteen just felt like a really, really long time away. But really it isn’t is it? Not once you think about it. I mean, not once I think about it.” 

Anna’s eyes traced the sunlight over the wall, spotting the empty fireplace on the opposite end of the study, a fine layer of ashes still inside. A little shiver went down the princess’s spine—and she found herself wondering whether it was inappropriate or just darkly ironic that the portrait now lived in the same room as a _fireplace_. 

“I hope you didn’t suffer long, Joan,” Anna addressed the portrait again, “what a horrible way to go, especially at nineteen.”

_I’m going to outlive her. I’m going to outlive my childhood heroine. But then…did I save an entire kingdom by nineteen?_

“You did so much by the time you were nineteen, though, didn’t you, Joan? I mean, you met the Dauphin of France and made him a king. You managed to defeat the English and turned back their army single-handedly and saved France. You saved a kingdom. How many people can say they did that at nineteen?” Anna sank back into the sofa, head on the armrest, hands resting on her middle.

“You were many things, Joan—brave, courageous, inspiring, a leader, pious, and a saviour of France. Who wouldn’t be inspired by that? Well, maybe Hans, who knows.” Anna pulled a face as she recalled Prince Hans of the Southern Isles. “But I like to think you wouldn’t have been too impressed by Hans. He was…horrible—and you’d see that that is an understatement, if you had met him.” 

She studied the portrait in silence for a few moments, imagining the battle that the painting portrayed. She imagined Joan with her white banner, leading her soldiers into the fight against the English. After so many years of constant warfare, France and her people were free. Despite her horrible ending, Anna liked to think that somewhere, Joan still fought as she once had in battle. Maybe not here, but somewhere, in another life, in another place. That was probably what Joan would have wanted people to remember—not the way she died, burning in unimaginable torture at the stake.

_I want to remember Joan for what she did in her life, not how she died._

“You did so much by nineteen—more than some in their whole lifetimes,” Anna told the portrait, “Probably more than Hans ever has done or ever will. Good riddance to him, anyway. He’s more likely to destroy a kingdom than save it. I wish I had done as much as you by nineteen, you know. I always liked to imagine I was at your side in the thick of battle.” 

Anna recalled with a little involuntary smile how she had pretended to “battle” with the servants and her parents, who all always had played along with her, pretending to be the English, quickly backing off when she “defeated” them. She remembered her father pretending to be Charles VII as “Joan”—Anna of course—crowned him with his own Arendellian crown. She recalled running through the halls with an Arendelle banner in tow, flying behind her like Joan’s own flag in her giant portrait. But, much as nine-year-old Anna had enjoyed pretending to be Joan, she could never bring herself to pretend to be Joan at the end of her life—the trial, the imprisonment, and her death. Even at nine, she wanted to remember Joan as she had been in life, fighting against the English, saving her kingdom, and crowning someone a king. 

 _Bet Hans_ wishes _he did that much by his age._

The sun now sank behind the cliffs and mountains hugging the fjord, its light quickly fading away as twilight approached. Deciding she had spent long enough in this study talking to Joan’s painting, Anna got off the sofa, brushing herself down as she stood up, looking up at Joan one more time. 

“Well, I ought to go check on Elsa,” Anna declared, “she’s probably just waking up right now—dinner’s probably being brought up to her now, if not in a few minutes.” Still, there was silence, but Anna liked to think that somehow she heard her regardless. The princess offered the portrait a last little smile. “Hang in there, Joan.” 

As Anna turned away from the portrait, she paused with a little frown, sure she had just heard someone in the room. Though not much more than a faint whisper, nevertheless, Anna could swear she heard it, even though she was the only one in the study.

_“Hang in there, Anna.”_

Anna slowly turned her head, staring up at the portrait with puzzled eyes. Maybe the twilight was starting to make her eyes see things, but Anna could swear Joan was looking back with eyes full of encouragement.

 

Back in Elsa’s room, Anna discovered that the queen was already awake, waiting for Anna’s return. Anna quickly went to sit down on the bed by Elsa, touching her forehead with a hand. 

“How’re you feeling, Elsa?” Anna queried. 

Elsa coughed, sniffling and wiping at her reddened nose. 

“Wonderful, thank you, Anna.” 

Anna didn’t miss the sarcasm in Elsa’s voice, but she resisted making a sarcastic comment right back. Poor Elsa looked so _miserable_ that Anna couldn’t help but take her hot hands in hers. Elsa’s fingers curled weakly over Anna’s, her blue eyes gazing into hers. 

“You up for any soup?” Anna asked, “I’m guessing Gerda’s bringing a bowl up soon.” 

“A little bit.” Elsa rasped, “Stay?” 

“Of course I’ll stay,” Anna assured, “for as long as you need me.”

“Did I sleep long?” 

“About an hour or so, I think,” Anna estimated. 

“Where…where were you?” 

“Me? Oh, talking to Joan of Arc—you know, her portrait.” Anna couldn’t help but sigh a little. 

“Anna?” Elsa prompted, staring at her in concern. 

“I’d…I’d realised I’m, well, nineteen,” Anna explained, “and I guess it just hit me that I’m the same age Joan was when she, you know, when she died. She did so much by then, and okay, nineteen probably wasn’t young young back then, but still…she was young. Even so, she managed to get a king crowned—Charles VII, no less—and saved her kingdom from the English. What have _I_ done by nineteen?” 

Elsa was giving Anna an odd sort of look. 

“What?” Anna asked.

“Last year…” Elsa croaked, “you saved Arendelle…kingdom…” 

“That was mostly you, Elsa. You thawed Arendelle!”

Elsa squeezed Anna’s hands, “Because of you. You taught me how. You…” a coughing fit interrupted Elsa’s words, and Anna quickly scooted around to slide an arm around her shoulders. Lifting her up a little, Anna allowed Elsa to rest her head on her shoulder.

“Need some water?” 

Elsa nodded against Anna’s shoulder. “Would be…nice…”

Anna helped Elsa to take a few sips from a cup, holding the glass for her as she drank. When Elsa finished, Anna replaced the cup on the side-table, holding Elsa close as the latter rested her fevered head on her shoulder.  
“You sacrificed yourself for me,” Elsa managed, “you saved me…and Arendelle. Because…” another coughing fit. “you…you showed me love will thaw. And I could thaw Arendelle. We saved a kingdom, Anna. Joan…would’ve been proud…I’m sure.” 

Another coughing fit attacked Elsa, Anna quickly grabbing the glass again, putting it to her lips. 

“Stop talking so much, Elsa,” Anna scolded gently, “you need to rest.”

“I…I know…but…”

“Let _me_ do the talking, Elsa,” Anna persisted, just as there was a knock at the door. “Come in.” 

Someone pushed the door open with a gentle touch, Gerda poking her head round its edge, a bowl of soup balanced in her hands. She walked to the side-table next to Anna, placing the bowl on its surface. 

“Here’s your soup, Your Majesty,” the servant said, “it’s chicken soup—perfect for a fever.” 

Elsa nodded her thanks, while Anna voiced her gratitude on her behalf. Once she had helped Elsa sit up with plenty of pillows, Anna carefully took the bowl of soup into her hands, gently blowing on the first spoonful before feeding it to Elsa. For a couple minutes, the only sounds in the room were Anna’s encouragements and the clink of the spoon against the bowl. 

“You know, Elsa,” Anna said after a few of these contented minutes of relative quiet, “as much as I love Joan for her courage and spirit, I love someone else even more for these qualities too.”

“Really?” 

“Yes, really.” 

“Who?” 

“You know her very well—like, all your life, really. Even before I was born.” Anna paused, ensuring she looked steady into Elsa’s eyes as she said the name of her greatest heroine—even greater than Joan of Arc. “Her name is Elsa.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the French version of the song, "Do You Want to Build A Snowman?" where little Anna says "Salut Jeanne d'Arc!" in place of "Hang in there, Joan!"


End file.
